Eric drops onto the outdoor sofa, then slaps the cushion next to him. I hesitate for half a second, taking in his flushed cheeks and messy hair. He looks wrecked and beautiful, and he’s completely unaware of it. His eyes lift to mine, and that guardedness he’s always hidden behind is missing.
He looks like he’s made up his mind about something.
Something involving me.
That same alcohol I was apprehensive about moments ago suddenly warms my veins. Without his inhibitions, Eric might finally drop these walls he keeps between us.
I’m a bastard, I realize, as I make the split-second decision.
I know this is wrong, and that the alcohol will hit me harder than it should. That it’ll loosen my tongue and blur my judgment, and tomorrow I’ll wake up with the same sick knot of shame. I know it could push Eric past tipsy into sloppy, or worse, make him say things he doesn’t mean. I know it could ruin this fragile, beautiful thing we’ve been circling for years.
I knowallof that.
But I want it.
More than I want to be safe or smart.
More than I want to protect us from whatever comes after.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter. “Hang on.”
People are everywhere as I duck into the kitchen, grab two fresh Solo cups, and fill them with ice and soda. But as I grab the bottle of vodka off the counter, I pause.
I could go back out there and take care of him like I always have. Let him curl into my side while he sobers up, then laugh about it in the morning.
Safe.
Smart.
My hand shakes as I lift the bottle, and clear liquor glugs into my cup—far more heavy-handed than I have any right to be with it. Over Eric’s cup, I only pour enough to keep his buzz going.
Even if I’m in a tailspin, I won’t take away his choice.
Sweat trickles down my spine from nerves, and the cool air is a welcome relief as I step back outside. Eric’s head whips up like he senses me there. I hand him a cup, and he sniffs it before taking a sip. His nose wrinkles when he tastes it, and I chuckle as he glances up at me in question.
“In for a penny, Eric,” I say, raising my cup.
He stares at me for a long second, eyes searching my face like he’s looking for something specific. Then he clinks his cup against mine and takes a long drink.
We sit in the relative quiet of the porch. The music pulses through the open door behind us, but out here it’s muted enough that I can hear his breathing. It’s slow, and a little ragged from the alcohol and whatever else is spinning in his head.
My buzz takes over, and as we sit there, I wonder why I was so worried about this when it all feels so natural. Eric keeps shifting nearer in small, incremental movements, and my heart beats faster with every one. First his knee bumps mine, then his thigh presses against my leg. I glance over and he meets my eyes in silent question.
I lean closer until there’s no space left between us. He’s warm, radiating heat from the booze, and every tiny adjustment feels deliberate, like he’s testing how close he can get before I pull away.
I don’t.
Of course I don’t.
He inches away and takes another slow sip of his drink, then sets the cup on the arm of the sofa. His head tips back against the cushion, eyes half-closed and lashes dark against his flushed skin.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… nice out here.” His voice is lower now, the slurring softer, like the alcohol is settling deeper. “Quiet. With you.”
I smile despite myself. “Yeah. Quiet’s good.”
He turns his head toward me. The porch light catches the gold in his hair, and I stare at the faint freckles dotting across his nose. His gaze is heavy-lidded and unfocused, telling me the alcohol is hitting him hard. He’s blinking slower than usual, pupils wide, and when he speaks again his words are careful, like he’s concentrating on each one.
